# Chapter 923: The King's Peace
The decree was nailed to a simple post of ironwood, the royal seal of the Crownlands pressed into the wax, stark and undeniable in the dappled light of the silver-green leaves. It was not a treaty or a threat, but a proclamation. A single, sweeping statement that echoed the quiet revolution Talia had just sparked in the Sable League's chambers. As King Cassian turned to leave, a small group of new pilgrims approached, their eyes wide not with grief, but with the timid hope of those who had heard the rumors and dared to believe them. They saw the king, recognized his bearing, and paused, their gazes flickering between his face and the decree. In that moment, they were not just subjects approaching a holy site; they were citizens of a new world, witnessing their sovereign bowing not to a god of dogma, but to a tree of memory. The age of kings was not over, but its purpose had been forever changed.
King Cassian of the Crownlands stood alone before the World-Tree. He had come in secret, his escort of Wardens and Royal Knights waiting a hundred paces back at the edge of the new settlement, their polished armor a stark contrast to the humble, ash-stained canvas of the pilgrim tents. The air here was different. It was clean, carrying the scent of damp earth, crushed silver-green leaves, and a faint, sweet aroma like honey and old books. It was the smell of peace, a concept so foreign to his life that it felt like a language he was only just beginning to learn. He was no longer the incognito competitor known as Cass, the friend of Soren Vale. He wore the crown, not on his head, but in the cut of his fine woolen tunic, the signet ring on his finger, and the unshakable gravity in his posture. He was a king, and he had come to pay his respects.
He looked up at the World-Tree. It was vaster than the stories had conveyed, a titan of silver bark and shimmering foliage that seemed to drink the very light. The low hum he had heard from a distance was now a palpable vibration, a thrum of life that resonated in the soles of his boots and the bones of his skull. It was the sound of a million souls breathing as one. He thought of Soren. He thought of the stubborn, fierce, broken man who had fought not for glory, but for the simple, human dignity of his family. Soren had been the truest man Cassian had ever known, a commoner with the soul of a king. And he had died for this, for this impossible, fragile hope.
A long, slow breath escaped Cassian's lips, misting in the cool air. The path that had led him here was paved with blood and betrayal. He remembered the grit of the Ladder arenas, the roar of the bloodthirsty crowds, the sizzle of Gifts clashing in sanctioned violence. He remembered the political maneuvering in the cold stone halls of his father's palace, the whispers of assassination, the crushing weight of a crown he had never wanted. All of it, every brutal step, had been a prelude to this quiet moment. The war with the Synod, the scheming of the League, the desperate flight from the Inquisitors—it all narrowed down to this single point of stillness.
He walked forward, his boots sinking slightly into the soft, mossy ground. He stopped a foot from the massive trunk, close enough to feel the coolness radiating from the bark. It was not like the wood of any tree he knew. It was smooth, almost metallic, with a faint, internal luminescence that pulsed in time with the low hum. He reached out, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second. He was not a Gifted. He had no power to offer, no magic to wield. He was just a man, a king, burdened by the ghosts of his past and the future of his people.
Slowly, deliberately, he placed his palm flat against the silver bark. It was cool and firm, alive with a deep, slow thrumming that felt like the heartbeat of the world. He closed his eyes. He did not pray for victory. He did not ask for guidance or strength. He had learned from Soren that true strength was not something given, but something earned. Instead, he offered thanks. He thought of his friend, of the sacrifice that had made this day possible. He thought of the thousands of Crownlands citizens crushed under the weight of debt, their lives forfeit to the brutal machinery of the Ladder. He thought of the soldiers who had died under his command, fighting for a peace he could now finally see.
*Thank you,* he thought, the words forming not as a prayer, but as a simple, heartfelt acknowledgment. *Thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for this chance.*
For a moment, there was nothing. Then, the world dissolved.
It was not a vision like the ones Soren had described. There were no specific memories, no scenes from the past. Instead, it was a feeling, an overwhelming, all-encompassing wave of collective approval. It was the sensation of a million souls nodding in unison. He felt the quiet courage of a farmer facing a blight, the fierce love of a mother protecting her child, the unyielding hope of a prisoner in a dark cell. He felt the strength of Soren, not the raw power of his Gift, but the indomitable will that had driven him. It was not a memory; it was a testament. It was the combined strength of every soul the tree had ever welcomed, a reservoir of resilience and peace flowing into him, not to empower him, but to affirm him. It was the World-Tree's way of saying, *You are not alone. Your cause is just.*
Cassian stood there for a long time, his hand pressed to the bark, his eyes closed, his heart filled with a quiet, profound strength he had never known. When he finally pulled his hand away, the thrumming of the tree seemed to resonate within him, a steady, calming presence. He felt the weight of his crown, but for the first time, it did not feel like a burden. It felt like a responsibility he was finally ready to bear.
He turned from the tree and walked back toward the ironwood post where the Sable League's decree was already nailed. From a leather pouch at his belt, he produced a second scroll, this one sealed not with wax, but with the impression of his signet ring directly into the vellum, a mark of absolute royal authority. He took a small, silver-headed hammer from his belt and a single iron nail. With a steady hand, he nailed his own decree to the post, just below the League's. The sharp *thwack* of the hammer echoed in the quiet clearing, a sound of finality and change.
The pilgrims who had been watching from a respectful distance now edged closer, their faces a mixture of awe and trepidation. Cassian looked at them, his gaze clear and direct. He was not their king, not yet, but he was a king, and his actions here would ripple across the world.
"By decree of the Crown of the Crownlands," he said, his voice carrying easily in the still air, "all debts incurred through participation in the Ladder are hereby forgiven. All indentured servants and their families held under such contracts are to be released, effective immediately. Let this be the King's Peace. Let this be the fulfillment of a promise."
A murmur went through the small crowd. Forgiveness of debt? It was unthinkable. It was an act that could destabilize the entire economic foundation of the Crownlands. It was an act of pure, unadulterated grace. It was the one thing Soren had fought for, not just for his family, but for everyone like them. Cassian had not just won a war; he had ended the reason for it.
He looked back at the World-Tree one last time, its silver leaves shimmering in the light. He thought of his friend, of the man who had taught him that a king's true duty was not to rule, but to serve. Soren's quest was over. His own had just begun.